Tag: love poems

They carry the snippy-snippet word load, the work of thoughts from olden days, the morning pulp-print news and funnies. The bargain discounts, news, and obituaries all yellowed into past-time; but thankfully the cartoon bubbles hold ponderings and blunt statements, new for your perusal. And occasionally a bit of real humor.

But they lack the graceful, lyrical, thought carriers of Yorick’s times – banderoles – glorious gold and silken word captures in Latin, Greek, and oligarchy French (never sniveling crude and vulgar jokes). But alas (“alas” is a wonderful word for exasperating times don’t you think [?] … alas), but alas, we can’t read or understand Latin, Greek, and Frenchy-fied words.

So maybe there were some unseemly lines, some dash-out bits of adolescent smart-aleck.

But now it is best, into the foreseeable future, to put the snideness in a cartoon bubble.

On a different note. Yorick, five hundred years since love-poems would lead to a romantic consummation, still likes the form and applies it to riddles concerning commonplace things. Please enjoy the following and revisit next week to see if you have ascertained the right answer.

Like this:

He and She, our volunteered docents here at the Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture, have returned following last years “stress”. They are romantic and absurd, or (with some humor), absurdists grasping for that “romantic” ideal, ( the mainspring of their “stress” [?] ). All the while youngsters play, acquire skills; practicing with material portents of their own demise.

As this year begins, Yorick, has usurped the “greeter” role (a common occupation for the aging types), validating an anachronistic medieval jester’s anarchical behavior: loopy banderoles leak from his exoskeleton ( his soul … venting [?] ).

Containing the wit and wisdom of a half-millenium of experience, Yorick is given to pondering: arthritis remains whilst spewing and scribbling (a singular complaint living as a jumble of bones) however, poetic intellect enjoys the leanness, the empty aura of all flesh.

As with so many others who ponder and spout, ponder and scribble; Yorick is incomprehensible to those still fleshed out – and trapped in – glandular, hormonal, and sensory tangles, hours, minutes, and who “verily doest much stress”.

Riddles and romance poems were the joy of his bawdy troubadour youth, little valued in this age of cynical utility. With that joy, Yorick is modernizing love-poem riddles as an entrance challenge to the tent. Riddled words about common (sometimes loved) things.